Twelve Steps
by captain-tots
Summary: The path to recovery requires the acceptance of a higher power. ChrisxPiers, no spoilers.
1. Steps 1-4

Twelve Steps.

_Cover art by siobhanchiffon. _

* * *

_**Step One: **__We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable._

Another night and another bar, because the last one kicked him out, and the one before that has a tab that keeps growing, and yeah, he could make fast work of the proprietor's leg breaking little brother, but why bother? Why even expend the energy anymore?

_And what are you even living for?_

For booze and cheap beds? For the company of girls with tracks on their arms and sad eyes who say he looks miserable in their chipped Russian voices, stumbling over their English? He never intended on going home with any of them, but they sat at the edge of the bar and rubbed his shoulders right before closing, and shot nervous glances at their pimps who were sitting a few tables back, silently praying that they would make some money tonight. So when four in the morning hit, he'd find himself walking down the street with a ninety pound wretch of a girl trying to keep him standing up straight, because if he passed out, she wouldn't get paid.

He wanted to cook them eggs in the morning, and make them coffee, and buy them a train ticket to somewhere very far away. But they were always gone when he woke up.

He didn't have any eggs anyway.

So, instead of playing liberator to the assorted whores of Eastern Europe, he would go get drunk again, to make up for his glaring inadequacies.

_You can't save those girls, Chris. How could you? You can't save yourself._

So he drank to forget Sofia and Viktoria, Anna and Polina.

He used to drink to forget some other names, but those were long gone. Hazed away in the cloud of cheap vodka. He supposed that was what he wanted.

So it was another bar tonight. The woman at the counter was dirt blonde and stern. She kept shooting him disproving glares. Who the fuck did she think she was, judging him? She sneered every time he asked for a refill. As long as the money kept coming from his pockets, it was none of her business. Everyone's a fucking alcoholic in Russia. He puffed up up a constant cloud of cigarette smoke to keep their interactions as short as he could. The ashtray looked like a burial ground, tiny little bodies stubbed into the dirt.

_Why would you think something so morbid? What the fuck is wrong with you? _

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" she asked, puckered little face squeezing inward.

"Nope."

He swirls the clear liquor in his glass.

"Another round."

She slams the bottle down on the counter.

The kid next to him, who's been chomping down on a steak all night, turns to him.

"Hard to find a good steak around here. Not like back home."

Chris wrinkles his nose. The hell is this guy? He's too clean cut for a dive like this. He's got a face straight out of the prom court. Clean chestnut colored hair with that little purposeful poof in the front, baby features, and soft unwrinkled eyes. He looks out of place.

The bartender returns to begrudgingly pours a few drops into Chris's glass.

Chris groans. Leave it to him to find the only bartender in all of Europe who hates money, apparently.

"Fill her up."

She crosses her arms.

"You've had enough."

She's never seen Chris at enough, that's certain. If his ass is still in the seat, not halfway over it, he's not at _enough._

"Listen sweetheart," Chris begins. He extends an arm out and yanks the bottle from her hand. She gasps at him. "You're here to pour drinks, and look pretty." She doesn't look it, but he might as well soften the blow. "So, how 'bout you shut your mouth?"

He dumps the bottle into his glass, nearly spilling it all over the counter. She snatches the glass out from under his hand and throws the contents in his face.

"How about you get the hell out of my bar?!"

Chris shrugs.

"Nowhere to go."

He grabs the bottle off the counter—it's his payment for the ruined jacket—and gets up. Then he sees the no-necked security. Fantastic.

He yells something at him in Russian. Chris keeps walking. It's not worth the trouble. The man steps in front of him, puts his hand on his chest. Chris sneers. He hates being touched, especially by some thug from a basement bar. Chris pushes him off.

"I said, she asked you to leave."

_Isn't that what I'm doing, asshole?_

Asshole grabs him by the shoulders. Chris jumps at the sudden contact, and before he knows what he's doing, he's got the man in a headlock, ready to smash the bottle over his head.

Something stops his arm mid swing.

He turns to look. It's the prom king, glaring at him.

"Never thought I'd find Chris Redfield wasting away in a shithole like this."

Chris stumbles back. His lack of balance would be embarrassing if he could make himself care. Apathy is kind at times. He manages to land himself in a chair.

Prom king sits down across from him. There's a scowl etched into his face that seems so harsh as to have been carved there.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Piers. Piers Nivans."

* * *

_**Step Two: **__We c__ame to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity._

He's got his head in the toilet again.

"Did you fall in? I don't wanna have to fish you out!"

Piers thinks he's funny. Chris disagrees at times.

There's nothing left in his stomach, so he spits up acidic mucus.

The bathroom in this sad excuse for a hotel is more of a literal _shithole_ than the bar that Piers scooped him out of two days ago. Just picked him up and walked off with him, like some sort of worried sick parent who just located their kid at the lost and found.

_"__Next time, you need to hold my hand and don't wander off._"

Yeah, he can imagine Piers saying it.

Piers knocks on the door.

"What do you want?" Chris yells. His voice echos off the toilet bowl.

"You okay in there, Captain?"

"Fucking peachy, kid."

"You need anything?"

_I need a fucking drink._

"Nope."

He spits up another clod of the shit in his stomach and flushes the toilet. He'll swallow the rest if he needs to. He's suffocating in this tiny room.

Chris pops the door open and stumbles out into the main "living area" of the hotel room. Living is an optimistic term for what they do. It's littered with the dirty clothes of five men, a handful of bullets is scattered across one cot. Guns sit in various states of disassembly, ready to be cleaned. The walls are covered in some tan colored peeling wallpaper, exposing ugly soviet-era cinder blocks underneath.

Piers is cleaning his gun. All of his belongings are neatly packed into a singular duffel bag. He's got a little oasis of cleanliness around him.

No one else is there.

"Where's everybody else?" Chris asks.

Piers shrugs.

"Out. Chasing skirts."

"And you?"

Piers looks up at him, as if the answer should be obvious.

"Well, someone had to stay with you."

"So, you're the babysitter?"

Piers doesn't even look up from his gun.

"Yup."

Chris sits down on his own cot. There's a duffel bag there with gear in his size and specifications. How thoughtful of them, to bring him along gear. As if there was no choice in him rejoining them.

"So," Piers begins. "It's been two days."

"Yeah." Chris doesn't know what he's getting at.

"When are you gonna get better?"

Chris snorts.

"You're not a very patient guy, are you?"

Piers shakes his head a little to the side.

"I just want to have a plan, that's all."

"Four or five days. It'll get worst before it gets better."

Chris is sweating bullets down his neck. Piers is wearing a heavy jacket and a scarf.

"You need any medicine or anything?"

"It'll be okay. It's not as bad as the first time anyway."

Piers looks up from his gun, interest piqued.

"The first time?"

"Yeah. I was your age, younger. Got kicked out of the Air Force 'cause of it...started fights."

Piers nods. He listens very intently, Chris notices, when he's paying attention at least. Head resting on one hand, eyes following everything Chris says.

"Ended up in the hospital that time. I was seeing spiders and shit."

"You're going to be okay," Piers says. It's a flat statement, like he's so sure of it.

"I guess I have to be okay. There's no other option for me, is there?"

Piers does his little shrug again.

"I mean, I'm not chaining you here or anything. The door's right there. But, it would be a hell of a shame for you to leave after we looked for you so long. And besides, where are you going to go?"

_To a bar._

"Why did you look for me?" Chris asks. It's been bugging him.

"Because, you're the best at what you do," Piers replies, like the answer is obvious.

"Not anymore. Not while I'm like this at least."

Piers drops the gun and adapts a serious tone. His eyes narrow.

"Because we wanted you back, Captain. I wanted you to come back."

* * *

_**Step Three: **__We m__ade a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him._

He remembers them now. All of them. How could he forget?

Now that he sees them in his dreams every fucking night.

Faces contorted with pain as the virus courses through their bodies, the hardening of the cocoons, the slick limbs which emerged. The way they screamed.

Every time he closes his eyes, they scream.

Spiders would have been preferable.

He doesn't sleep well; he tosses, he turns, he cries out in embarrassing mewls and moans at times, at which point, Piers shakes him awake.

"You okay, Captain?"

Piers always calls him captain. It's so stiff and proper. There's nothing stiff or proper about Chris sitting up in bed, sweat dripping down his face, gasping for air, his stomach flipping in protest of his very existence. Piers grabs him by the shoulders.

"Steady there. You're fine. You're going to be just fine, okay?"

Piers uses the words, "fine" and "okay," a lot when he talks to Chris. He reaches across to his own mattress and grabs his scarf. Piers wears it all the time. Chris assumes a girlfriend or some similar relation bought it for him.

He wipes Chris's face with it.

"The hell are you doing, Piers?" Chris hisses, trying to stay quiet. He doesn't need to wake up the whole team. He can't help but feel like they hold him in contempt—after all, he's slowing them down.

"Cleaning you off? What's it look like?"

"Uh...why?"

Piers pulls the scarf away from Chris's face and gives him a blank stare.

"Drank up all your brain cells, Captain? You're soaking with sweat."

Chris shakes his head.

"I _know_ that. Why are you using your scarf?"

"Because I didn't want to get the equipment dirty."

"Isn't that scarf like, hell, I dunno. Important to you or something?"

Piers nods, slow and even.

"Well, yeah. But, eh, not as important as you."

Piers has careful hands when he wipes Chris's face. He's gentle but firm, pressing lightly against Chris's nose, the sides of his jaw, over his lips. The way he touches Chris brings to mind girls with names like Sofia and Viktoria. There's something sensual about it, when Piers bites down on his lower lip and rubs in circles with his fingertips. The concentration on his face, eyes narrowing. Chris's breathing is swift and shallow.

"Relax," Piers whispers. "You're going to be just fine."

"How do you know?" Chris asks, his voice sounding for the first time, very small and afraid.

"I'm right here for you, Captain. I'll be sure of it."

"That ain't right kid. A captain is supposed to look out for his soldier's, not the other way around."

"Well, I guess we can just keep it between you and I, okay?"

A ghost of a smile flicks over Piers' lips.

* * *

_**Step Four: **__We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves._

"We can head out today," Chris announces that morning, as the men in their team are getting themselves sorted out: clamoring in and out of the shower in shifts, unwrapping MRE's, and boiling water for inky powdered coffee.

He waits for Piers to ask if he's going to be okay, in that annoying yet well meaning manner of his. But, Piers just nods.

Chris isn't quite sure how to give orders anymore. It's only been three months, but it feels like a lifetime. His men though—_his men—_seem to respect him well enough, quite a feat, considering that he's spent the past three days with his head hung in a toilet, or trying to sleep off his misery with the lights out, effectively kicking all of them out of the room. The BSAA has good soldiers though.

Like his men who died. They were all damn good soldiers.

_His_ is the operative word in that sentence. Being a captain means accepting responsibility for your actions. And for the actions you don't take.

It means being the one who knocks on the door to tell the mother, the father, the wife, the girlfriend, the boyfriend, whoever, that their loved one went down in the line of duty.

Being the captain means that when shit gets tough, you face it. You don't put your fucking tail in between your legs and run.

He's no Goddamn captain. These men aren't his men. He has no business telling them what to do.

They're all sitting around the room, bags packed and guns clean, waiting on his word. What can he tell them?

_Go home. Run away from me as fast as you can, because I destroy everyone who I'm meant to protect. Don't let me hurt you. _

He's faltering. There's four pairs of eyes on him, waiting for an order he doesn't have. Where do they go from here? Off to hunt down Ada Wong? Where can they start?

Piers looks into his eyes and sees the confusion in his eyes. He nods knowingly, and begins to speak.

"If I may suggest, Captain, I believe we should rendezvous with BSAA Europe before making any further decisions."

Chris feels like the wind's been knocked out of him. _Of course_ that's what they should do. He hasn't reported in yet... he can't start a mission without speaking with command. What the hell is he doing?

_Did you really fry your brain up that bad?_

Piers gives him a quick nod.

"Right, Piers. We'll be returning to the BSAA Europe headquarters in Paris, and awaiting further orders from command. Do we have any contacts in this area we can request a vehicle from?"

He's rusty at this. Like his mouth is creaking trying to speak.

One of the men clarify that they indeed do have a contact in the area, and they can get a van to the border, at the very least. Chris approves this course of action. And so they were off. It's a far cry from the sort of missions he's used to, but getting from point A to point B is at least within his abilities.

And so they're off, on foot, as it would turn out. Chris can only begin to imagine how conspicuous they must look. He hopes there's no one walking around with a grudge against the BSAA. Not they'd be likely to survive long. Chris hangs back, allowing the more eager team members to lead the way. Piers walks next to him, keeping in time with his steps.

"Thanks for that," Chris whispers.

"For what?" Piers is genuinely confused.

"Covering my ass back there."

"It was nothing. You weren't briefed, there's no reason you should have been expected to make a decision."

"By not briefed, you mean, 'drunk off my ass for the past three months,' right?"

"No!" Piers rejects the sentiment almost violently.

"I wasn't accusing you of anything, kid. Relax."

Piers doesn't say anything for a while after that.

They make their way through the city, attracting glances everywhere they go. It's a dusty town, where the ravages of the USSR's regime are still evident. Buildings shelled in World War 2 are still studded with bullet holes. There's an eerie beauty to it all, living in the shadows of a strange and medieval sort of past. Towers and churches, lots of white stone. Chris hasn't seen it very well in the daylight. He's been crawling in the shadows too long.

"I don't remember how to do this leader stuff," Chris admits to Piers.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm shit at this... if I knew how to lead, I wouldn't have ran. People I lead get hurt."

"You're not shit at this, Chris. You're a soldier. This is what you're meant to do. And if you can't believe in yourself, I will."

His faith would be endearing, were it not so misguided.

"Why do you do this for me, Piers?"

Piers chuckles, something bitter.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

Piers makes a low sigh.

"It'll come back to you. Just wait."


	2. Steps 5-7

_**Step Five: **__We admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. _

It's a Parisian cafe', like the kind you'd see on a postcard. Too fancy for his tastes, by far. They sit inside, tucked into the corner, at Piers' request. Outside is the city of love, supposedly, but Chris is feeling anything but romantic. He's still got the sweats and the shaky hands, he's keeping sunglasses on even inside because it's way too fucking bright. The irony doesn't appeal to him.

Piers is toying with a mug of black coffee, taking slow sips from time to time. Chris has a baby sized bottle of Coca-Cola and a bowl of soup. He keeps jarring the utensil off the edge of the bowl, and people stare. He's feeling unwell.

"So, you and I are going to China?"

"Looks that way, Captain, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does."

Piers is wearing his scarf again, now that he's washed it off, Chris assumes.

"Where's the scarf from, kid?" Chris asks. He doesn't expect the question to provoke the kind of pissed off, narrow eyed look which Piers gives him in response.

"You don't remember, do you?" Piers snaps, full of righteous indignation. Chris is taken aback. Piers shakes his head. "Bosnia. We got it in Bosnia."

"We? The team?"

"Just you and I, Captain." Piers grins in spite of himself. "Just you and I."

Piers sloshes around his mug, while Chris gives him a confused stare.

"Just what the hell happened between you and I, Piers?"

"You know what happened. You just need to think harder. But, I don't know what happened to you. Where'd you run off to?"

Chris groans. He doesn't want to relive the experience.

"Just give me a straight fucking answer." The withdrawal is making him edgy.

"How about this? You tell me one thing you did while you were missing, and I'll tell you one thing we did together. An exchange of information."

Piers has a fox smile.

"Fine," Chris groans. "I left the site of the casualties, rather than writing up a report. I walked for a while. Maybe a few days. I hit the Edonian border. I surrendered my weapons there. I didn't want anything to do with myself."

Piers nods, the puzzle beginning to fit together in his mind.

"We went to Sarajevo on a week's leave. The rest of the team was flying to Berlin. They said they wanted out of the third world. You didn't though. You thought it was beautiful there." Piers waits for Chris to hold up his end of the bargain. He sighs, before beginning to speak. His voice is uncharacteristically soft.

"I rented a room. I was going to do some thinking. I wanted to change the direction of my life, maybe become a teacher or some boring shit like that... do something other than killing. Watching people get killed." Piers nods. It's his turn.

"We sat on the edge of the Sarajevo River and talked about our lives before the BSAA. You told me about STARS... about Raccoon, about Umbrella, Antarctica... I was amazed by everything you'd seen. I had nothing to say. All I'd ever done was play football and shoot in simulators."

The waitress comes over to their table and interrupts the conversation. She's a gangly girl with pinned back auburn hair. Chris feels a pang of recognition. Claire... did Claire even know if he was alive?

Piers knows the waitress, and they make pleasantries in French, a language Chris doesn't understand. Piers says something amusing, and the girl giggles, cheeks flushing pink. She leans in and gives Piers a kiss on the cheek.

Chris sees a mirror of everything he could have had.

"Sorry, that's Aubery. She's a friend of mine," Piers says, once the waitress has skittered off. Chris nods, empty expression. "Now then, where did we leave off?"

Chris clears his throat.

"I was going to change my life. That was the plan. But, I couldn't stay in that room forever... it was fucking haunting. Thinking about it all. I just kept seeing them, over and over again. So, I went to get something to eat. Went down the street to a bar. And I hadn't drank in a long time. But, you always think one won't hurt, you know?"

"We went to the Latin Bridge where Ferdinand was shot. You said that if World War One didn't teach us to stop killing each other, nothing would. We did a lot of walking after that. You never told just what you were looking for."

"One beer, and I realized that I had abandoned my men. Two beers, and I could see their faces, see them dying. Three, and they were screaming." Chris pauses, wipes his face with the nice cloth napkin in his lap. "I guess it took ten or so before I didn't hear them anymore. Maybe more. I don't remember too well."

"We went to a marketplace, outside. You bought some trinkets, stuff you said you were going to send back home to your little sister. There was a woman weaving scarves. I was going to get one, but I left my cash in the hotel—too worried about pick pockets. You laughed at me and bought it."

"I started going back every night... it was the only way to get the screaming to stop. I saw them, all the time. On the street, in cars, across the bar from me. I switched over to vodka, because it made them go away faster."

"We walked back to the hotel together. You told me to put on the scarf, and made some joke about you buying me things because I was your girlfriend. I laughed and said I'd pay you back."

"There were girls at the bars, always. Skinny little things, I guess their pimps had them on drugs. They'd flirt around me, and when closing time hit, I was too drunk to say no. There was one girl who I used to take home every night... we didn't even sleep together more than once, I don't think. Her name was Sofia. And I wanted to, I dunno, make her breakfast in the morning and get her a train ticket, give her some cash. Get her back home. She always left though, while I was passed out. And then, one day... I woke up, and she was there. And I tried to wake her up, so I could take her to the train station or something, I didn't really know. But, she was dead. She died while I was asleep...after that, I drank a lot to forget Sofia. I didn't even remember the BSAA anymore. I just knew that people who I touched got hurt."

Chris bites down on his lower lip, but it's no use. He can feel his eyes burning, the back of his throat stuffing up. He's going to cry, he can feel it. It's fucking shameful. He's weak. So weak.

And then he feels Piers rest one hand on top of his own. The sudden human contact startles him.

"And we went back to the hotel, and I went to pay you back for the scarf, and you wouldn't let me... and I asked if that made me your girlfriend or something, and you laughed and said only if I wanted to be... I told you, no. Not a girlfriend. And we stared at each other for a good while after that...and then you kissed me."

Chris looks at Piers with damp, red eyes.

"Are you shitting me, Nivans?"

Piers shakes his head.

"Here... just, try to remember."

Piers looks both ways, to see that there's not attention on them, before he leans in and kisses Chris on his forehead.

* * *

_**Step Six:**__We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. _

Another night, another hotel. The BSAA likes moving them around, keeping them on their toes.

Piers is kind to him, far kinder than he deserves. They just kiss and touch, under the sheets of this night's bed. It's not even sexual. It's more of a healing process, Chris decides. Forgetting again, with hands around waists, and tongues against throats.

_Fix me. Fix me. Fix me._

He's practically begging it.

He wants Piers to draw the poison out of him.

Piers doesn't want him to just forget though. Piers wants him to grow from it, a tall order if he's ever heard one. What is there to grow from pain, and death, and destruction? Flowers don't sprout from blood.

"You're strong. I know you're strong," Piers says, his head resting against Chris's shoulder.

Chris isn't sure if Piers is lying to him, or really believes what he says.

"I was strong," Chris corrects.

There's hot breath on the back of his neck, the rub of stubble on skin, wandering hands.

"Stop it, Chris," Piers says, forceful. "Stop making this a fucking pity party."

Chris laughs, something low and bitter. Thinking about how absurd this must look, the apple cheeked ace, rolling around in bed with the worn out, fucked up captain. Like some sort of stupid gay porno shit. Chris shook his head, and got up from the bed.

"Where are you going?" Piers asked, more than a hint of frustration in his voice.

"What the fuck are we doing, Piers? This isn't right... you shouldn't be... I shouldn't be... We shouldn't be doing this."

"Doing _what_?"

"Fucking around like this."

There's an abrupt change in mood; he can feel the both of them ready to go for each others throat.

"What, you have a problem with it, Chris? Am I too _gay_ for you or something?" Piers spits out, face twisting up.

"No—it's not that. I'm not, but, it's not...you're just so fucking young, and I'm, well, I'm worn out. And here's your pity party, Piers. Everybody close to me gets hurt, every single one of them. My sister, my partners, my team. All of them. You know what I see when I wake up every Goddamn day? I see the man who let down his team. Let them die."

He sinks down into the chair across the room from Piers. He's nauseous and starting to wonder if the lingering sick feeling will ever pass.

Piers sits up, stares straight at him.

"You know what I see, when I look at you?" Piers asks.

Chris shakes his head. He's not sure if he wants to know.

"I see a man who was so loyal, so strong, who cared so much about his men, that they died for him, knowing that it wasn't in vain. That they died for a cause so much larger than themselves. And you—you fucking owe it to them to be that man. To believe in yourself, the way they believed in you."

Chris sits there for a moment, before nodding his head, slow but sure.

"Okay."

Piers smiles a little, and motions for him to come back to the bed. He obliges.

Piers is upon him as soon as he hits the mattress—lips graze his neck, hands rest on his chest.

_Fix me. Please fix me._

It's a silent prayer.

* * *

_**Step Seven: **__We humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings._

He's trying, he's really fucking trying. It's just like an itch he can't quite scratch at though, that ever present nag in the back of his head.

_I'm thirsty. _

He doesn't tell Piers about it though, because he doesn't want to disappoint him. It's just nigh impossible to live up to the man Piers thinks he is.

And he's suffocating in these hotels rooms, being shuffled around every single night. The sweats and the shakes have gotten better, but the PTSD is back in full swing, and he can't stand the new place every night shit. He wakes up in cold sweats, not sure where he is, who he is. He cries out in his sleep, he tosses and turns.

He knows this, because Piers shoots him looks of careful concern when he wakes, as if he doesn't want to emasculate him by acknowledging it.

As if he could make him feel any weaker than he knows he is.

There's the constant whisper in the back of his head.

_I'm thirsty. _

And it's just going to be one—even though he full well knows that it's never just one, because one starts the voices, and then it takes almost a bottle of vodka to shut them up.

And why not start again? Piers would say to stay sober for the memory of their team. The team was dead and buried—his fault. Wouldn't his own destruction be the most fitting way to repay them?

He'd disappoint Piers of course.

_You were already going to disappoint him anyway. It's inevitable. _

It'll be for Piers' own good. Teach him to not trust Chris.

To stop putting his faith in people who are just going to hurt him.

Piers is asleep next to him. His nostrils flare when he exhales, slow and deep. He's almost snoring.

He won't even know.

He'll just wake up, and Chris will be gone.

Sorry, kid.

He takes his time, pulling off the covers, setting his feet on the floor as lightly as possible. So far, so good.

He takes a step towards the door. A pang of hesitation hits him. He thinks about Piers, poor, naïve Piers. How torn apart he's going to be.

And then he thinks about Piers' lips and skin and hands on him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Piers mumbles. He almost jumps at the noise.

"Oh, uh, to the bathroom."

"Then why are you wearing your boots?"

He doesn't speak. He waits for Piers to be angry, to yell at him again and tell him that he's letting their comrades down.

But he doesn't.

"Don't leave, Chris."

"Okay."

That's as much as he can manage. He's ashamed of himself, face burning up.

"Go back to sleep," Piers tells him.

Mechanically, Chris marches back to the bed, kicking his shoes off as he goes. He sits down on the edge.

"I'm trying," he says.

"Yeah. I know," Piers responds.

Chris lays down next to him, and Piers rests his head up against Chris's shoulders.

Piers never asks him to love him back.

He just gives Chris more affection than he deserves, more than he knows what to do with.

"Please don't leave me again," Piers whispers.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."


	3. Steps 8-9

_**Step Eight**__: We made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all._

It's morning, an uncomfortable and stilted morning after Chris's attempt at leaving last night. He just sits on the edge of the bed, staring into space. Piers is in the bathroom, an electric razor softly humming through the walls.

He wonders why he tried to run last night. Part of him thinks it was simple irrationality. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that's a thing, right? He's shell shocked. It didn't really mean anything.

_You sure you didn't just want out? Maybe you can't handle trying to be the man Piers thinks you are. _

Chris wills the nagging voice in his head to go away, but it's sitting nice and cozy on top of his mind now, digging in with roots and thorns.

_You're never going to be Chris Redfield again. Why even try?_

This is normal—self doubt is a part of the healing process. That's what they taught him when he was a hot headed twenty-two year old Air Force man who had just drank his way out of the military.

_"__You will have feelings of hopelessness. This is to be expected._"

Those Air Force shrinks really knew how to make a man feel better.

He closes his eyes and buries his head in his hands. Last night... last night. He's such an ass. He's lucky that Piers didn't tell him to get the fuck out, to pack up and go.

And where would he have gone?

Did Claire even want anything to fucking do with him anymore? He wondered what she'd been told about him... she know he was alive?

He didn't know what would be worse. Claire thinking he was dead, or Claire knowing he was a coward. And she would see right through any lies the BSAA fed her. She was no dumb bunny; she remembered taking out the trash bags full of beer cans.

He wondered if she would even want to talk to him, after all the shit he'd put her through.

Before he can drown in his own introspection, Piers walks out of the bathroom, tapping away at his phone. He's wearing a towel wrapped around the waist, and nothing else. Chris feels a lump in his throat. He can't be sure if he's sexually attracted to Piers, or if he just likes the intimacy.

Piers, on the other hand, knows exactly where he stands. It makes Chris a little nervous.

"Six days till we leave for China. You ready, Chris?" Piers snaps his mobile shut.

"Yeah. Of course I am," Chris replies.

"Uh huh." Piers says, not sounding too convinced. "Something's eating you, isn't it?"

Chris shakes his head.

"Last night; I'm sorry about..."

Piers cuts him off.

"No. Not that. It's not about that, is it?"

"There's a lot of shit going on." Chris taps his forehead. "Up here."

"We've got six days before China. If you've got any unfinished business, you might want to take care of it now." Piers looks down to the phone in his palm, and then hands it off to Chris. "Is there somebody you want to talk to?"

Chris flips the phone around in his hand.

"Yeah. It's just a question of whether or not she wants to talk to me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Chris sees Piers' face fall. The corner of his lip is twitching, like there's something he wants to say.

"My sister. You didn't think I was fucking you around, did you?"

Piers' face immediately straightens out.

"Huh?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"You just... you made a face," Chris says, almost in a chuckle. "Don't worry about it, kid. Look, I don't know how my sister is gonna feel about hearing from me. She and I, well, let's just say it hasn't been all family picnics and shit."

"Well, what's the worst that could happen if you call her?" Piers asks.

"She could tell me to fuck off; that she never wants to hear from me again."

"And would that be any worse than not knowing?"

"Eh. I guess I never thought about it that way."

"Running from your problems hasn't gotten you too far, has it, Chris?" Piers asks, almost mocking. Chris scowls back at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I've been told it all before. Gotta step up to the plate, be a man, all that. Stop running—hell, you think I don't know that? That I don't know that running away is what got me into this mess? I know damn well that I need to stop avoiding my problems. That doesn't make it any easier."

He and Piers stare at eachother for a moment, tension flickering between them like static electricity in the air.

"Give me the Goddamn phone, before I change my mind. And quit looking at me like that," Chris grunts, hesitant to admit defeat.

Piers flashes him that fox grin again, before pressing the phone into his palm.

"Only because you asked nicely."

* * *

_**Step Nine: **__We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others._

He doesn't even know if it's her number anymore, but he'll try anyway. She's got a cell phone, he knows that much. Maybe a house phone in her apartment too—does she have that same apartment still, the walk up in the DC suburbs, the one with the nosy neighbors that made him feel suffocated? Who knows.

He hopes not, but hell, if she's happy there, then he supposes it's none of his business where she lives.

He punches in the keys with more force than really necessary.

Does he want her to pick up, or not?

_She won't want to talk to you. Why would she? All you ever did was hurt her. _

It rings. At least the number is still active. Maybe he'll get some random person with no idea who Claire Redfield is. Maybe her new boyfriend will pick up. Hell, boyfriend, girlfriend, fiance', husband—none of them would surprise him too much. A lot can happen in six months... and he hasn't talked to Claire in at least nine.

Shit, she could have a baby or something. He wouldn't have even known.

He counts the third dial tone. He'll hang up soon, declare this a failed experiment, proclaim that the universe wants him to stay away from Claire.

"Hello?"

It's Claire's voice—he would know it anywhere. She's apprehensive, probably wondering why the hell someone from Paris is calling her in what must be the middle of the night there. Shit, he didn't even think about that.

"Hey... Claire. It's Chris."

She's silent for a moment. The line is fuzzy. He thinks about hanging up. He never should have tried to drag her back into his shit show.

"You're alive?" she gasps into the receiver. He can hear the edge of tears in her voice. He's not quite sure what that means yet.

"Yeah, I'm alive. That's what they tell me."

He can hear her staggered breathing on the other end.

"Oh my God. They told me... they told me you went AWOL during the Edonian Civil War. What... what happened to you?"

Chris sighs, heavy. He doesn't want to explain.

"I had a problem. Again."

She'll understand what he means. She always does. Especially when it comes to that.

"Oh, Chris." She sounds deflated, all the air escaping her lungs with that one sigh. "Oh, Chris..."

"Yeah. I know."

"I thought that was... I thought you were going to..."

"Get help? Yeah, that was being in the field. That was my idea of help, I guess."

He remembers it well now. After Africa, the nights he came staggering back to his sister's apartment, wasted. The afternoons he came back to her apartment wasted too.

Her telling him to get the fuck out, because he was just like dad; dad who hit that guardrail with a can of beer in the cup holder. Dad who stole mom from them; dad who left them all alone.

_"__You're killing me, Chris. You're just like dad. Just fucking like him. You don't __**think**__, do you? About how you hurt other people." _

"I'm sorry, Claire. I'm real fucking sorry." His voice cracks. He can see Claire, standing in her apartment with her one arm folded over her chest, just like mom used to do, that pained expression on her face, the one that says, "time to go bail out my fuck up big brother again."

"I shouldn't have kicked you out...I've been looking into that shit, cause of you and dad, and all, you know. And I know it's not something you can just snap out of."

"Look, you've got nothing to be sorry for Claire. I was the one who hurt you. You've never done anything to me but be the best sister you could."

They're both crying now.

"I'm going to China next week. With the BSAA," he tells her, voice flat.

"No! You should come home. You shouldn't be out there now." She's yelling into the receiver, tears clouding her words.

"I can't just sit around, Claire. I'll lose it again. I've got to keep moving... gotta keep moving on. Anyway, I've got a partner with me. He knows how to keep me together."

Claire sighs in a rush of static.

"I don't think anyone really knows how to keep you together."

"He's given it the best shot so far."

She's still crying. All he ever does is make Claire cry.

"Be careful, Chris. Please be careful. And don't hurt this guy, okay?"

It's funny how Claire doesn't even know how close Chris just might be to hurting Piers.


	4. Steps 10-12

_**Step Ten: **__We c__ontinued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it._

"Got any eights, Chris?"

"Go fish."

Piers pulls a card off the top of the pile.

"Dammit. Nothing good."

"You need to learn how to play poker. This is getting old."

Piers shrugs.

"I know chess," he offers.

"I'm not a chess man myself."

"I figured as much."

It's three days till China. This hotel is in London, where the streets are as dreary as Chris imagined. He's been here before, of course, but everything is kind of fuzzy in his memories now. They're coming back, but it's a process. London is a nice place, but the weather is shit, and the only places to go within sprinting through the rain distance are pubs, and he assumes that Piers thinks he doesn't need that kind of stress.

Granted, in three days, they'll be on a peace keeping mission in China, preparing for the likely use of biological warfare. But, that's not the same kind of stress. It's funny how he can cope with some things so much better than others.

He's learned quite well that he can't cope with guilt.

"Are you going to lay a pair down, or are you going to wait for me to get old?" Piers taunts, bringing Chris back from his thoughts.

"You're gonna be an old fucking man before I put down this pair, Nivans," he retorts, shaking his head all the while.

"Uh huh," Piers says, running his hand up Chris's leg, under the little side table they've been sitting around. He bites down on his lower lip, smirks. "You bored of this?"

Whenever Piers has a proposition of sorts, Chris gets anxious.

He thinks that he just might love Piers, whatever the hell it is that love means anymore—if sharing a bed and feeling a pair of arms around your shoulders means love, then he loves Piers.

And if staying by someone's side while they exorcise their demons with whimpers and shakes means love, then Piers loves him.

"Yeah, a little bit," Chris says, hesitant.

Piers picks up on the catch in his voice.

"Something bothering you?"

Chris leans up into the back of his chair, rolls his shoulder blades back till he hears an audible crack.

"I don't know..."

"Am I making you uncomfortable or something? I mean, hell, you're the one who started this." Piers looks wounded. He's good at that, transforming from relaxation to indignation within the span of a second.

"Look, it's not like it's you, Piers..." He stumbles over his words, fully aware of how stupid he must sound right now.

"What does that mean?" Piers' mouth twists up like he's been wounded. "You can't exactly _break up_ with me."

Chris raises his hands, a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry. That was stupid. Sounded stupid too. That's not what I meant."

Piers nods, sighs with a low breath across the table, shaking their carefully arranged card game.

"It's okay. Not a big deal. I get defensive sometimes, you know?"

"What the hell for?" Chris asks with a slight smile. It's as close to a compliment as Piers is going to get from him today.

"Eh, you know. Shitty exes, whatever. I'm allowed to have baggage too." He's got a wry expression on, with the corners of his eyes crinkled. Chris likes it when he does that; it makes him feel like Pier's is really focusing on him.

Piers collects the deck and starts putting the cards back in their worn out box.

"What about you, Chris? Any crazy ex-girlfriends, bunny killers or whatever?"

"I had to start first last time," Chris protests, fully aware of how juvenile he must sound right now. He grabs some cards too, and tries to jam them into the box, over Piers' hand. Piers laughs at him, and pulls them away from Chris, trying to get a semblance of organization.

"Well, I've been told I come on too strong. That's all," Piers admits, looking just a bit sheepish.

"Nah. You come on just right," Chris says. He feels Piers' hand resting against his knee again.

"You're really great, you know that, Captain?"

"You too kid, you too."

He thinks it might be the closest they'll come to confessing in explicit words and phrases just how they feel. There's a mutual understanding though.

Like when Piers brushes his hand against the side of Chris' face, taking his time to study him: cheekbones, jawline, the concavity of the slope of his neck, the exposed skin circling the collar of his t-shirt. Their breathing slows to a near halt.

"I wouldn't want to follow anyone but you."

Piers' lips slide against his neck, taking their careful time kissing and nipping little love bites, back up to the underside of his jaw, the day of stubble on his cheeks, his own lips.

He wants to say something, anything. Tell Piers how much he means to him, how much he's done for him.

_You saved my life, kid._

But the words don't come to him, so he lets his actions suffice, biting down on Piers' lip, arms circling the other man's waist, pulling him out of his chair into a precarious balance on Chris' lap. Piers is all warmth and soft skin, he's like a fresh breeze of Spring into the Winter that Chris has been stuck in so long.

Piers is going to thaw him out.

They move the proceedings onto the too small twin bed. Spatial restraints require that Piers lay on top of him, with his heavy breathing in Chris' ear, searching hands sliding under his shirt.

"I'm sorry...if I ever made you think I didn't want, this," Chris manages to form the words, slow and stumbling, but spoken all the same.

"It's okay..." Piers gasps out between open mouthed kisses, darting tongues and wandering hands. "It's okay."

_I love you._

_I love you too._

* * *

_**Step Eleven:**__ We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out._

They're laying in a new bed this time, with one night to go before China, and neither one is sleeping. Chris can hear Piers breathing short and shallow bursts next to him, feel his heart jumping around in his chest.

"You feeling okay, Piers?"

Piers stirs as if he was asleep. Chris knows it's an act.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, Captain. Thanks for asking."

Piers is jittery, making subtle twitches.

"You sure?"

Piers turns on his side to face Chris.

"Promise you won't run this time," he says, and it's almost a whisper. "Even if something happens."

"Nothing is going to happen. We're smarter this time. What happened in Edonia was a stupid mistake... we never should have trusted that bitch." Chris repositions himself against the pillows, tugs at the sheets.

"But what if it does, Chris? What if something happens to our men? What if something happens to me? How do I know that you're going to be okay?"

"Nothing is going to happen to you, kid. I won't let it," Chris grunts, extending out his arm to pull Piers closer to him. "I've had enough people close to me get hurt in the field. No more."

"But what if it _does happen_, Chris? What are you going to do then?"

"Why do you want to talk about this?"

"Because I care about you."

They're silent for a few moments. Piers presses himself up against Chris, feels his heartbeat. They're just about synchronized. It's a comforting thought.

"I've been thinking about when I get home... going to see a therapist or some shit, you know? I never really gave it a shot. I keep sober real well when I'm in the field, so my quick fix was always another mission... and then coming home even more fucked up."

Piers nods.

"I think you should. I would hate to see you again, throwing yourself away like that. You're the best damn captain in the BSAA."

"Thanks Piers... really. It does mean a lot to me. I've been doing this back and forth shit for years now, ever since I was a kid. I made it ten fucking years once. Ten years, and then I threw it away on a bad day."

Piers smiles, wraps his arms around Chris's chest. They're almost tangled up in each other.

"Go for a hundred this time."

* * *

_**Step Twelve: **__Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs._

The helicopter is about to touch down in China, and it's shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Piers shoots a quick look at Chris, sitting next to him with his knees up to his chest. The floor vibrates beneath them, and some of the BSAA rookies are steadily losing the color in their faces.

"How are you feeling, Captain? You ready?" Piers asks.

Chris smiles in response, his confidence returned.

"I live for this, kid. Stopping terrorism."

"You're the best, after all."

"Yeah, yeah, if you say so." It's mock modesty, and Piers knows it. A little inside joke.

Piers takes Chris' hand in his own and squeezes down hard. The contact is comforting, and it's the last they'll probably have for sometime. Smooching in the field is a no go.

"We're about to parachute out!" the pilot announces, breaking Piers and Chris from the shared moment.

The pair stands up, shakes their legs out. China beckons beneath them, a stunning display of bright lights and rushed cars, people everywhere. A BSAA soldier hands them parachutes, and they get ready to suit up.

"Hey, Piers," Chris says, fumbling with his parachute.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Thank you. For everything."

Piers shakes his head, gives him that dogged grin.

"It was an honor."

They stand with their toes against the metal of the helicopter, on the edge of the world. China beckons, a land ravaged by bioterror and the forces of those who seek to have unfair power over others.

Chris knows what it's like to have something exerting power over you, the brutality of being controlled, by anything, anyone. He's there to set things straight.

Chris jumps from the helicopter, into the night sky. Piers is right behind him.

He'd follow him anywhere.

* * *

**AN:** And it's complete! I've never finished a fic this fast. Just something about the Nivanfield that inspires me. Now having played the game, I see that the events in this story do diverge from canon somewhat. However, I prefer this version of events, as I feel the game didn't really allow time for Chris to recover physically and mentally from his issues with alcohol.

The Twelve Steps are the intellectual property of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Much thanks to SLT and Riot Siren for listening to me ramble while I write.


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